Figment
by Dynewell
Summary: No one escapes Silent Hill without scars to show for it. Heather Mason struggles to reintegrate into normal life as fragments of her nightmare torment her in the form of a stalking angel. (Heather Valtiel)
1. 1 Troubled

**Disclaimer:** _I'm definitely not an expert on Silent Hill lore. I've only played through the first four games, and I have a pretty loose grasp on the details. Please forgive me if a lot of this doesn't line up with canon; I just fill in the gaps with my own interpretations._

* * **1 - Troubled**

As far as her neighbors knew, she was just a troubled girl. Definitely unstable, but not dangerous. Just your typical schizophrenic yelling at nothing in the middle of the night.

Cheryl Mason—formerly known as Heather Mason-had literally gone through Hell, but worse than that, no one would ever believe her. Sometimes she didn't even believe it. Her time in Silent Hill felt like a distant memory from another life, though it was only four years ago. Those four years were fogged by psychiatric drugs, alcohol and one hundred days in a mental institution. The loneliness was worst of all. She missed her father. Her friends from school had kept their distance, ignored her calls—all since she got out of the hospital. She'd been emancipated since Harry Mason's death, legally allowed to live on her own at 17, but there was no way she could work. Now age 21, Cheryl made an honest effort, but the "hallucinations" and her reactions to them had gotten her fired from even the simplest jobs.

Douglas had been her only friend through all this. If not for him, she would be living on the streets. He helped her move across the country, as far from Silent Hill as she could go. He helped her get financial assistance from the government—on the grounds that she was disabled, too mentally unwell to earn her own living. Her studio apartment was shitty and she relied on shitty public transportation. It wasn't a glamorous life, but it was still Heaven compared to the mental hospital. Cheryl still attended therapy. She was recently prescribed a cocktail of drugs that seemed to work for her, at least to reduce her anxiety attacks and paranoia. It seemed nothing would take away the "hallucinations", however, and her doctors had to admit they were baffled. No amount of therapy or medication could convince Cheryl that the otherworldly things she saw were not real. She knew better.

* * *

Cheryl was lonely, but never truly alone.

Her stalker was always there, even when she couldn't see it. It was inhuman, faceless and frightening. The Metatron—_Attendant to God_—had seemingly become bound to Cheryl even after her time in Silent Hill, and she'd tried damn near everything to shake it. Medication, church, holy water, pagan rituals, alcohol, violence…The monster always returned. Though it never hurt her directly, it caused Cheryl distress. She was never at ease when it was around. It reminded her of the abomination that used to grow in her womb. Its presence made her skin crawl and her stomach drop. What did it want with her? All it seemed to do is go out of its way to agitate her.

Floor space was a commodity in her studio apartment, so Cheryl opted for a futon rather than a bed. She never bothered to fold it down, falling asleep on its couch-position in a tangle of blankets. She left the TV on 24/7, its blue glow flickering, late-night infomercials droning quietly as she slept. The TV was mind-numbing safety. The constant chatter of other human beings lulled her into a sense of security. It was when the voices stopped that she woke.

The chattering faded. Cheryl stirred, rolling over to face the screen. She squinted in the bright light, blinking a few times until the world came into focus. The infomercial had deteriorated into static. The young woman froze, eyes darting to a shadowy figure above the television. Clinging to the wall like an insect, nearly human in shape—The Metatron was here to disrupt her life once more. Its head twitched slightly, craning toward her. Bits of the infomercial faded back in, but the audio was scrambled beyond recognition.

"Ugh! Would you fuck off?" Cheryl snarled, then fiercely pitched her pillow at the creature. She didn't fear retaliation; not since she put a bullet in its head four years ago and it still remained passive. She tried to push it to its limit many times. Tried to convince it to kill her and put her out of her misery, but it would do nothing of the sort. It must have enjoyed her suffering, she figured. The pillow missed anyway, slumping down harmlessly to the floor. The Metatron extended one twitching hand forward, planting its palm on the boxy old television. At its touch, the static was interrupted by multicolored bars and obscured images rapidly cycling over the screen. The volume increased, the audio's deep scrambling sounding more like the banter of demons than salespeople.

Cheryl kicked the blankets away and stumbled off the couch.

"Stop it!" She growled and stormed towards the TV, seizing the Metatron's arm and jerking his hand away. The static lifted dramatically, almost looking like a normal picture again. The creature defiantly slapped its palm back onto the device and the program was a mess once more. Its head twitched in what Cheryl could only assume was an expression of twisted delight at her expense.

"I said 'stop'!" the girl wailed and shoved the monster back against the wall. It bounced back quickly, gripping the TV tightly with both hands, gloved fingers curling over the top of the screen. Terrible sounds exploded from the speakers, like messy feedback from a radio. The images behind the glass were terribly distorted, but Cheryl could still recognize them as faces. The eyes of a woman, cutting to her mouth, then ear, the corner of her head. The face of Alessa…The face of Heather…The face of Cheryl, bloody and mutilated.

Panic rose in Cheryl's stomach. She clutched the television and heaved it off the cabinet, sending it crashing to the floor with a bang and the tinkling of shattered glass. The cord was ripped from the wall. The static, the demons, the images were gone. The room was dead silent, only the faint sound of dogs barking down the street and Cheryl's uneven breaths. She sunk to the floor and buried her head between her knees, tears welling in her eyes as she quietly pleaded,

"Just leave me alone…Please…"

The Metatron seemed upset, its head jerking about violently. It uttered some guttural, inhuman sounds from the mouth on the side of its skull as it crawled down the wall and approached the broken television. It pulled the device upright again, running its hands all over, feeling it out as a blind person would. One of its hands ventured through the broken screen, grasping around at the inner workings. The remaining glass was cutting its arm, but it seemed unfazed.

Cheryl watched for a moment, vision blurred by tears.

"Look what you did. You broke it. _You!_" she emphasized, pointing an accusing finger, "Don't you see how unhappy you make me? Don't you care at all?"

The Metatron pulled out a fistful of wires and examined them by feel. Though it had no visible ears, Cheryl knew the thing could hear and even understand the gist of what she said sometimes. It seemed to be ignoring her, but she continued scolding it anyway,

"Some fucking angel you are, _Valtiel_," she practically spat the name, "You're a pain in the ass. Why don't you piss off so I can have a normal life?"

There was a silence between the two as the creature continued to pull the television apart. The floor surrounding them was scattered with electronic scraps, Cheryl silently glaring until the Metatron eventually lost interest and crawled up the ceiling. It defied gravity completely, hanging suspended as if it weighed nothing at all. It was an Otherworld creature, bound only by Otherworld laws. It came and went between realms as it pleased.

Cheryl picked up her pillow and made her way back to the futon. It was too late to deal with all this now. With any luck, Valtiel would disappear back into the Overworld and give her some peace for a day or two. Valtiel was a constant part of her life, but there was still a major communication barrier between them. She could only assume things. She assumed that the Attendant to God had failed its purpose, and with no God to attend to, it became null in its own world. No purpose, no direction, nowhere to go…So it followed Cheryl back to her world, serving her as if she had usurped its master's throne. The Metatron was not native to this realm or its properties, however, and its idea of "serving" could be anything from annoying Cheryl to damn near killing her.

Then again, that assumption could be wrong. Maybe it was just a residual demon from Silent Hill meant to torture her for the rest of her days, punishing her for what she'd done to God.

* * *

Strips of daylight stretched over the wall, shining through the blinds of Cheryl's one window. She cautiously opened her eyes, fearing her "angel" might be hanging above her. It was nowhere to be seen. She stood up and headed for the kitchen area in a half-waking stupor.

"Ow—Shit!" She stumbled back when a shard of glass pierced her foot. She winced as she pulled it out of her heel, examining the blood left behind. The TV was still disassembled on the floor. What a mess. She spent the next half-hour sweeping up bits of metal, wire, and glass, then carried the hollowed-out box outside.

She crossed the parking lot, glancing at the neighbors standing around having their morning smoke. They looked back at her, then one younger woman made a face and giggled, whispering something to her friend. Cheryl sighed. Surely they thought she had another "mental episode" last night, fighting with hallucinations.

Sometimes, Cheryl wondered if they were right.

She tossed the broken TV in the dumpster and rushed back inside. The smell of tobacco made her want to start smoking again. The only thing stopping her was her depressing financial situation. Once inside, she woke up with some coffee but couldn't stomach any food. She put on a comfortable short jersey dress and a hooded sweatshirt, leaving yesterday's makeup smeared around her eyes as she rushed to her therapy appointment. She caught the bus just in time.

Sitting near the front, Cheryl stared out at the mundane world passing by. This side of the country would never feel like home. Not a day passed where she didn't miss her father, and what an insult that he was taken by an Otherworldly murderer only she could see. No one would believe the truth. Her therapists nodded along and fed her lies to pacify her. She only attended these sessions to stay out of the hospital.

Checking in at the front office, Cheryl sat in the lobby and waited for her therapist, Dr. Paulson. This was only her third appointment with him. She'd been passed around to various mental health professionals over the years for various reasons; either they felt her problems were beyond their skill, she was uncooperative, or they felt she wasn't making progress. Other patients waited around her, people with varying degrees of illness. Some were silent and appeared "normal" while others wore five jackets and chattered to themselves. She wondered how many of them had experienced what she did. How many had seen the Otherworld? How many had monsters of their own?

Cheryl was 15 minutes early, despite how she dragged her ass this morning. She played a little game on her phone to pass the time. Multicolored gems rotated around the screen, and for a moment, her anxieties felt far away. Then the game froze. Cheryl waited for a moment, then tapped the phone against her palm. The screen flickered rapidly, picture severed by climbing black bars. She felt dread creep up her spine, and glanced up. The people around her had suddenly become mutilated abominations. Cheryl's whole body tensed. This scenario was not new, but it was a nightmare all the same. They didn't realize what they looked like.

The receptionist took calls as usual, though her face was but a spiraling black void. Her voice gurgled on inhumanly. The man sitting beside Cheryl obviously didn't notice the black sludge seeping from his eyes and nose as he leafed through a magazine. Cheryl watched in horror as it dribbled into the pages. No one else in the room was looking much better. Cheryl sat frozen in place, teeth clenched, trying to appear as casual as possible even as her heart hammered and her legs shook. She was on the verge of a freak-out. She felt a heavy, almost oppressive presence behind her and craned her head up, finally spotting the source of all this madness.

Valtiel "stared" back at her with his eyeless face, perched upside-down on the wall just above her. She looked like a caged animal, eyes wide and desperate as she silently mouthed "go away" to the monster, which apparently no one else could see. Valtiel must have created an Otherworld portal somewhere nearby. He used them to travel over realms quickly, and though Heather didn't have a vehicle, she would never be desperate enough to use them herself. The Metatron reached out to her and stroked her unwashed black hair. Cheryl slapped his hand away, then realized she was doing it again…Looking out of control. To the people around her, she was slapping at thin air.

The young woman pretended to clear her throat before shuffling to the bathroom. She just needed a moment to steady her breathing. The door clicked shut behind her and she flicked on the light, startled at the sight before her. There was her portal.

The Halo of the Sun was painted on the wall tiles in red. It had a coppery stench to it. In the center of the seal was a long, dark, tunnel that defied all special reasoning of this building.

"God damn it…!" Cheryl hissed as she gathered fistfuls of paper towels and wetted them in the sink. No one but her would see the tunnel, but they would see the bloody Satanic-looking graffiti around it. It scrubbed away from the tile rather easily, unlike the portal Valtiel opened in her studio wall, which she blocked with a large flowery tapestry. Once the Halo was gone, the tunnel mended itself. The wall returned to its normal tiled state.

By the time she left the bathroom, Valtiel was gone, and everyone in the lobby looked human again. Her therapist had been waiting, and led her into his office.

"You look shaken, Cheryl," the doctor mentioned as he closed the door, "Do you need some water? Tea?"

Cheryl slid into an overstuffed chair and shook her head. Dr. Paulson took his place across from her and rested his ankle on his opposite knee. He touched his fingertips together and asked,

"You're having a hard time today, aren't you? What's going on?"

"It followed me," she choked out quickly, "The Metatron. I think it's in the building."

She knew he thought she was full of shit. But she needed to get it out either way, before she panicked. Paulson remained calm as he replied,

"Do you feel threatened by it?"

Cheryl hesitated.

"No," she decided, "I know it won't hurt me. It never has. But it's…It does things to people. It turns them into monsters, and I'm afraid that I…" she trailed off there. It was best if she didn't mention any homicidal thoughts, or she could find herself in that terrible hospital again.

Vincent's words still haunted her years later. _"They look like monsters to you?"_

She shuddered.

"Go on. It's alright." The doctor urged her.

Taking a deep breath, Cheryl continued,

"It was messing with my TV last night. Things came up on the screen—Things from the Otherworld, I think. I freaked out, and I…I had flashbacks to Silent Hill. I ended up smashing my own TV."

Paulson's brows jumped ever so subtly. He marked something down on his clipboard. Suddenly Cheryl felt like she'd said too much.

"So it's been a very active couple of days for you," he said, "Tell me: What do you think this creature's intentions are? Do you feel it's malicious?"

Cheryl didn't know how to answer. She chose her words slowly, carefully,

"It won't kill me. It'll never kill me, no matter what I do to it. I think it…" she paused, then winced at how ridiculous she was going to sound, "I think it might worship me. It brings me offerings. Weird stuff, like," she thought for a moment, recalling all the trinkets Valtiel had left at her feet, "Flowers. Trash. Jewelry." She quivered, "Sometimes it brings dead animals to me. I hate that shit."

"But you say it also torments you."

"It does. But…I don't know if that's the intention. I aborted its God and killed it. I think it sees me as its God now." She paused, "That, or…Or it's punishing me for it."

It all sounded so stupid out loud, years later, in the painfully normal real world. Cheryl didn't blame doctors for diagnosing her as schizophrenic. If she didn't know better, she'd say she was rolling on some pretty crazy God-delusions too.

Hell, maybe she was. Insane people never knew they were insane, right? The notion terrified her. She'd rather all this horrific nonsense be real.

"I see," Dr. Paulson mumbled, scribbling something else on his clipboard, "So, you feel this monster is just misunderstood. Do you ever feel misunderstood, Cheryl?"

She almost rolled her eyes,

"I know what you're thinking," she explained, "The Metatron is a representation of myself that I'm projecting through delusions, blah blah. But it isn't. I know I sound insane, and I know you'll never believe me. You'll never know how frustrated I am, Doctor. Everything I'm telling you really happened. It is real." There was desperation in her voice,

"This monster is tangible. It's cold to the touch. It has weight. It stinks like blood. It moves shit around in my apartment when I'm gone." She sighed, "It's not real to anyone else, I guess, but it's real to me. This is my reality…Unfortunately."

Dr. Paulson slowly nodded, silent for a moment. Then he replied,

"Truly, the only reality that matters in your life is going to be your own. I believe you, that you experience these things, though they may not be tangible to me. I can tell you have a lot of hang-ups about this. Remember, if you're not completely honest with me, I can't help you."

Cheryl groaned and slumped down in her chair. He couldn't help her either way. All of this just felt like a waste of time, pouring her heart out as her so-called Attendant watched from the corner of the office. Clinging to the wall behind Paulson's desk, cloaked in the shadow of a fake tree. This is how it was most of the time. Cheryl could ignore him well enough when he wasn't disrupting the mundane world. Valtiel could be a fly on the wall when he felt like it.

Dr. Paulson fed Cheryl the same advice he gave to all of his delusional patients for the next hour, suggesting a higher dose of medication and various breathing exercises. Cheryl spaced out through most of it, especially when he tried prying into her childhood. Her life before Silent Hill was mostly blocked out of her memory anyway, so she made up some bullshit to appear compliant. She didn't want to think about her father. She'd get upset, then Valtiel would get upset and start warping her reality. As long as she stayed calm, she would be okay.

The hour was up. Paulson led Cheryl to the door and handed her a little slip of paper,

"Give this to your MD. We'll try a higher dose of the meds and see if that calms the monster. If not, there are plenty of other solutions." He forced a little smile. Cheryl tucked the note in her purse and replied,

"Thanks. I will. And sorry about your wall."

The doctor quirked his head, then turned back to his office. A Halo of the Sun was crudely smeared on the wall behind his desk in red. It was only 3 feet in diameter, just large enough for someone to crawl through.

Dr. Paulson's jaw dropped. He stepped towards the Halo, examining it closely. He stammered,

"W-what…How…?"

Cheryl shrugged and replied flatly,

"Told you it was real."


	2. 2 Hell's Nightclub

**2 – Hell's Nightclub**

Next week's therapy had been cancelled as Cheryl was switched to a new therapist. Dr. Paulson decided that she somehow managed to vandalize his office…Right in front of his eyes without him noticing. None of it made sense, but neither did anything else in Cheryl's life. She was just grateful he hadn't called the police on her. The poor guy was probably seeking therapy himself after such a mindfuck.

Three days after the incident, Cheryl intentionally missed her appointment with her MD. She stayed home with her monster instead. One useful piece of advice she took from her time with Dr. Paulson was to stop fighting her anxieties. He told her to accept them and let them be there, and they would be easier to deal with. Pushing them away only made them worse. Valtiel was a being completely composed from the psyche of a suffering girl—he was, in a way, anxiety personified. Cheryl found that the advice was effective with him. The less she pushed him away, the easier he was to deal with.

The Metatron emerged from the Halo behind her flowery tapestry some time last night. She woke up to him perched on the back of the futon, "looking" down at her. She wanted to scream. Her desperation was unbearable and she was near her breaking point. Either she learned to cope with this creature or she'd put a bullet in her head. Today, she was going to try something different. She was going to swallow her fear and treat him like he belonged there.

Sitting at her little table for one, Cheryl blew the steam off her chamomile tea before sipping. The silence was strange. She glanced over at the cabinet where her TV used to be and wondered if she really missed it. Maybe it had just been a crutch all along. The Metatron was crouched on top of the refrigerator nearby, silent and still as a statue. It reminded Cheryl that she had some ground beef that she'd left thawing in the fridge for way too long, and had been neglecting to throw it out for a week.

Curiosity got the best of her. The monster had made many offerings to her in the past; some possibly of peace and some that seemed like a threat. What if she made an offering back to it? The young woman asked the monster as she opened the fridge,

"Do you eat meat?"

Valtiel simply twitched. He could not speak, at least not verbally. It seemed the only noises he could make were animalistic growls and screeches. He was eerily silent most of the time.

"Do you even eat at all?" Cheryl truly wondered as she pulled the plastic off the tray of expired beef and presented it to the creature, placing it before him on top of the fridge. Blood pooled at the bottom of the blue tray. The Metatron seemed interested. Cheryl cringed in disgust as he sunk his hand into the meat and squeezed it between his fingers, like a baby grabbing their birthday cake. After pulverizing it a bit, Valtiel raised a fistful of ground meat to the side of his lowered head—the side with the awful mouth. His wiry black tongue slithered out, prehensile enough to bring small chunks of beef into his misplaced maw. It was lined with tiny, sharp teeth that snapped only once or twice before the matter was swallowed. Where the food went after that was a mystery Cheryl didn't care to discover.

He devoured all of it, licking the blood from his glove before skittering across the ceiling and settling in the corner. Cheryl tossed the package in the trash. She was curious about what else he might eat, but wasn't going to push it now. She watched him for a moment, just to make sure he wasn't going to raise Hell—literally or otherwise. Cheryl was content, her monster was content. Taking a deep breath, the woman pulled a leatherbound journal out of her nightstand drawer. It was one of many. She recorded various subjects, such as what she ate that day, what she dreamed about, and how the supernatural elements in her life were affecting her. Photos and articles were stashed between pages, sketches of symbols next to notes and any information she could find about the Order. It was an obscure subject and there wasn't much information to be had. Half of what she did find were just ramblings from cult members who had long since gone mad.

Curling up on her futon, Cheryl quickly scribbled a note to herself:

"_The Metatron eats. Accepts raw beef._"

She tapped the pen against her journal for a moment, then added,

"_I was transferred to a different therapist again. The Metatron scared Dr. Paulson away from me. Dr. Paulson fed me a lot of the typical stuff, but he did give me one valuable piece of advice that other shrinks never did. He didn't tell me to fight my fear, he told me to accept it instead_."

Cheryl glanced at Valtiel, clinging quietly to the ceiling. He was still there and unpleasant as ever, but he wasn't destroying anything…Much like her anxiety at the moment. She wrote,

_"I think it works on the monster too_."

* * *

Cheryl awoke to darkness, only the dim glow from a streetlight passing through her blinds. Bold, inky shadows cloaked most of the studio. She didn't mean to nap for so long…Usually she didn't feel relaxed enough to nap at all. She carefully made her way across the room, hands extended, feeling along the wall for the light switch. She felt the tapestry and the dead, stale air flowing from the Halo portal beneath. More smooth paint, the round knob of the thermostat, then her hands met something soft and fleshy, but cold like the skin of a corpse.

She jerked back with a loud gasp, folding her hands in front of her chin. A familiar sound rumbled out of the darkness, like the purring of a large predator. Anyone else would have voided their bowels, but Cheryl breathed a sigh of relief realizing it was only a faceless, stalking, monster. Her first instinct was to yell and swat at him, begging him to go away. Then she remembered her new technique was still in testing.

"You almost made me piss myself…" She grumbled as she flipped the switch, clenching her teeth and fighting the urge to scream. The light blinked a few times, then steadied. Valtiel clung to the wall before her, his head and body twitching more rapidly as light flooded the room. Though he had no eyes, he seemed somehow irritated by it. She watched as he slinked his way behind the futon.

Cheryl cautiously trailed the creature and kneeled beside the futon. It was pulled about a foot away from the wall, just in case it snowed in Hell and she ever felt like folding it down. Valtiel was nowhere to be seen, and she understood why when she spotted the small Halo of the Sun smeared on the white wall. She should have been able to see her neighbor's living room through the tunnel, but there was only a mile of darkness. Once again, this Otherworldly entity flipped the finger to spatial continuity. Cheryl was more irritated by the fact that she'd have to paint over this mess and pray that Valtiel didn't insist on keeping this one open. How many damn portals did he need in a one-room apartment? How long had this particular one been here? As many times as she'd painted over the Halo behind the tapestry, he kept replacing it like a defiant teenager having a graffiti war with the cops. She just shook her head in defeat and pushed the futon against the wall, blocking the tunnel completely. She'd never see that damage deposit again anyway.

Valtiel had truly thrashed this place over the last three years. Heather cleaned up what she could, but it was a constant battle. Sometimes he came out of the Otherworld tunnels covered in soot, mysterious grime and even blood, still fresh and glistening. Whose blood? Cheryl couldn't imagine and wasn't comfortable thinking about it. He touched everything, looking with his hands rather than his eyes, and left streaks of filth in his wake. Cheap rugs shielded the carpet and the futon was wrapped in sheets that could be washed in bleach with the rest of her laundry. She'd become clever with her decorating, like a mother with a messy child.

* * *

It was nearly midnight, but Cheryl was terribly restless. A sudden vigor overcame her; she hadn't felt this way in years. For the first time since she was released from the hospital, she didn't want to be cooped up indoors. Was she possessed? The night was calling to her, urging her to leave her house. The air was cool and crisp, so fresh compared to the stale, moldy air in the apartment complex. She threw on a baggy army-green jacket and jeans, then headed out the door with nowhere in mind. A switchblade was concealed in one inner pocket of her jacket, a stun gun in the other. She never left home without them. She just needed to get out, join the real world for a while and see what normal people were doing these days.

The city streets crawled with shady characters, but she couldn't be more apathetic about them. She heard a beat pulsing from down the way and saw the multicolored glow of a nightclub flashing from Downtown. Cheryl realized it was Friday night, and she hadn't been to a club since she was a teenager with a fake ID. She was 21 now! No more hassle! A sudden vigor had overtaken her lately and she had nowhere else to be…Why not?

A crowd of drunken young people milled about outside the double-doors. Cheryl watched in amusement as the bouncer literally tossed a man out into the street. The surrounding people laughed. Cheryl wasn't exactly dressed for it, but she flashed her ID and was let in anyway. The women around her sparkled in their shiny minidresses and jewelry as they gyrated on the dance floor. Cheryl felt more content to be a wallflower for now, simply soaking in the positive energy. The people here were so…_Alive_. Parti-colored lights illuminated a hundred fresh, smiling faces. Cheryl spent her last 6 dollars on a drink and finally got the courage to join them.

The bass thumped, electronic music booming and buzzing all around Cheryl as she swayed about on the dance floor. She couldn't help but smile too. This must be how normal people felt all the time. Normal people who never carried a cult's God in their womb, people who didn't look in the mirror and see a demonic reincarnation, people who weren't haunted by monsters manifested from their psyche. For the first time since before her father died, Cheryl felt like a living human being.

Though she was far from the most attractive or well-dressed girl in the club, a young man danced up behind her. She was startled as he seized her hands and grinded his pelvis against her hip, all laughter and flashing teeth until his arm was twisted and pinned behind his back. He let out a yelp as Cheryl held him there for a few seconds, her eyes wide and darting as she assessed the situation. The reaction was purely instinctual…She'd been suffering hyperawareness since leaving Silent Hill.

The dancers around them giggled, ooh'd and aahd.

"Chill, Girl, chill!" the man begged, wincing at his twisted arm. Cheryl pushed him away and told him,

"Then keep your crotch off me!"

He rubbed his aching arm and looked around, feigning a big smile to assure everyone that his pride was still in-tact. Cheryl walked away, weaving through people until she was back near the bar. She breathed from her belly, staring off into nothing. She was just startled, she told herself. She just needed a minute. One minute to calm down, and she could enjoy herself again.

It wasn't thirty seconds before the young man turned up beside her. He ran his fingers through his spiked brown hair and said to her,

"Hey, no hard feelings, right?"

"Just…" Cheryl sighed, closing her eyes as she concentrated on her breathing, "Go away."

"What if I bought you a drink?" he urged. Before she could answer, he had already whistled for the bartender and ordered two drinks. Cheryl rolled her eyes. Now she remembered why she didn't interact with people anymore. Nobody _listened_ to her.

"I'm Eric," the man smiled and extended a hand, "You?"

Cheryl shoved her hands in her pockets and answered flatly,

"Heather."

Her eyebrows jumped. The name just blurted from her mouth, a name she hadn't used in years.

"Heather!" he repeated, "Hey, like that book, right?"

"Ugh…" The young woman doubted he ever read a book in his life. She just needed to get away from him so she could collect herself.

"I need to go." She said, then quickly disappeared into the crowd.

"Hold on! You got a drink up here!" he shouted after her, holding the fruity drink in the air. She ignored him and pushed through the ladies' room door.

There were a couple other women in here. One was fixing her makeup in the mirror. Cheryl locked herself in a stall and heard the other woman in the stall beside her, sparking a lighter. She jumped as something metal clattered on the tiles, glancing over to see a spoon lying by her feet.

"Shit! Sorry!" the other woman barked. Cheryl watched a manicured hand reach under the gap, grab the spoon, and pull it back into the other stall.

"Christ…" Cheryl whispered to herself as she rubbed her temples. She had some bad experiences with drugs over the last few years and she never wanted to relive them again.

The music pulsed through the wall, muffled, like a whole different world next door. Anxiety bubbled in Cheryl's belly, heart racing, head dizzy…She wasn't ready for any of this. It was all too much. What was she thinking? Randomly leaving her apartment in the middle of the night—alone—to dance with a crowd of people she didn't know? She wasn't even a good dancer. She was making an ass of herself. How was it that she was so brave in the face of unholy monsters, while simple human interaction sent her into panic mode? She didn't used to be this way…Well, _Heather_ didn't used to be this way. But she wasn't Heather anymore. She was Cheryl, wasn't she? She'd always been self-conscious, but not like this. Everything she learned in Silent Hill…Knowing who and what she was, she just felt like an alien. How much of this was Cheryl, how much was Heather, and how much was Alessa?

Cheryl stormed out of the stall and made a beeline for the swinging door. She shoved it open, then stopped in her tracks.

She had stepped into Hell's nightclub.

The techno music had deteriorated into a screeching, broken version of itself. The sound was not from any speaker, but somehow the same volume from everywhere, as if it were a natural ambience. The once lively and beautiful dancers twitched and shambled much like Valtiel did, all their pretty faces now mottled, warping, nightmares. The lights dimmed and flickered, creating brief moments where everything was pitch-black.

"Oh God, oh god, no…!" Cheryl squealed and brought her hands to her head. Fingers tangled in her short black hair as she dodged and weaved her way through undulating monsters. Her eyes darted around, searching and searching until she found him: Valtiel, hanging upside-down on the ceiling and doing something she hadn't seen him do since her time in Silent Hill. He was turning a bright red valve that almost seemed to glow in the darkness of the rafters. She muttered in a panic,

"Why…Why this…? Why now…?"

Between the sea of creatures and the place going black every few seconds, Cheryl lost her direction and couldn't find the exit. She was spiraling deeper and deeper into panic, hyperventilating in the middle of a hundred faceless abominations. Suddenly they all turned her way, twitching hands reaching out to her. They grasped at her hair, at her jacket and arms, and she screeched. Wriggling out of their grips, Cheryl whipped out her stun gun and let loose aimlessly. It hit one of the monsters—

"People! Shit, they're just people!" she reminded herself, cringing as the void-faced woman hit the floor and convulsed. The surrounding monster-humans suddenly distanced themselves from Cheryl and she made a break for it, spotting the exit and bursting through the heavy double-doors.

It was like night and day.

Out here, everything couldn't be more normal. Cars drove by on the street, lively human beings laughed together with their wholly human faces, moving about fluidly, naturally…Cheryl pressed a hand to her chest and struggled to catch her breath, stumbling down the sidewalk. Cold as the air was, her face felt like it was on fire. Sweat beaded her brow and she began to shrug off her jacket.

She'd go home. Make some tea. Sleep it all off-

She had the jacket half-way down her arms when she was grabbed, forcefully pulled around the side of the building. Everything back here was cloaked in bold shadows, and it took a moment for Cheryl's eyes to adjust. She squinted, recognizing Eric and his stupid spiked hair as he held her arms in a deathgrip and pushed her against the brick wall. Her arms were pinned by her jacket sleeves, and the blow knocked the wind out of her, forcing her into silence as the man snarled,

"You think it's funny to ice me out in front of everyone like that? Huh, Bitch?" he shoved her into the wall again, harder this time. A gaudy silver chain dangled from his neck, glimmering as he quivered in anger.

Cheryl wheezed and squirmed, trying to get a hold of the knife in her pocket. She'd dropped her stun gun somewhere on the dance floor. Her head was reeling with panic and nightmares and—

"You're lucky I gave your ugly ass a chance in the first place!" Eric growled inches from her face. The smell of alcohol assaulted her senses and she could only groan, still searching for words and how to make sense of them.

"I'm a nice fuckin' guy…!" He told her. She could have laughed, if she weren't distracted by the sight behind him. A dot of dark red blood, glistening in the dim light, appeared on the bricks. It rapidly grew and split as it dribbled down, forming a large circle. Eric was oblivious, pushing Cheryl deeper into the wall and slurring,

"I came here for a good time…!"

Smaller trails bled from the main circle and stained smaller designs into the bricks—sigils, symbols—forming a complete Halo of the Sun. The center appeared to "burn" away, the brick flaking into thin air and revealing a dark tunnel beyond.

"…and I'm gonna have a good fuckin' time!" Eric exclaimed with finality. Just seconds after he did, the Metatron crawled up from the tunnel. Cheryl's eyes widened. One instant and an inhuman roar later, Eric had been seized, pulled deep into the darkness like a fly into the maw of a hungry frog.

One second, the man was gusting foul breath in Cheryl's face. The next, there wasn't a trace of him. He was simply…Gone. No screaming or movement from the Halo. Nothing. She stood stunned for a moment, hands trembling.

A bad memory assaulted her, of Claudia as she was dragged down by the angel and…Disintegrated? Torn apart? Either way, she'd been killed.

Cheryl was sure she'd just witnessed a murder that-like her father's murder-she could not explain to anyone.


	3. 3 Evidence

**3 - Evidence**

Cheryl panted and wheezed as she shut the door to her studio, locking both locks behind her. She'd run the entire way home, and even passed two blaring police vehicles as they sped down to the club. They just missed her, and with any luck, she wouldn't be a suspect.

The night's events spun through her head like a hurricane. She could barely process anything that just happened or how much of it was actually "real". Obviously the police had been called, and she could only assume it was because she shot someone with her stun gun. Or maybe—just maybe—they had been called for an unrelated incident.

Or maybe someone reported a murder.

Cheryl collapsed to her knees at the thought. Valtiel wasn't visible to anyone but her, and neither was the tunnel. Was anyone witness to what happened in the alley? If so, what the hell did it look like to them? Cheryl's body couldn't handle another panic attack. She softly wept instead, crumpling to the floor at the notion that maybe she really was criminally insane—that her experience in Silent Hill had all been a waking dream. It was frighteningly possible that she killed another human being tonight, and her damaged psyche disguised it as Valtiel's doing.

Didn't a lot of murderers blame demons?

* * *

It was around 4:00 PM the day after the incident, and Valtiel still hadn't shown himself. It was just another thing for Cheryl to worry about as kneeled over the bathtub and rinsed her hair. The excess bleach swirled away, and after patting it dry with a towel, she examined her artistry in the mirror. She was a blonde once more.

"Heather." She said to her reflection, "You are _Heather_. Not Cheryl. Heather, Heather, Heather…"

She repeated the name, getting used to the sound on her tongue for the first time in four years. She didn't want to slip up and be Cheryl; especially not when the police might be looking for Cheryl and her head of jet-black hair.

Heather was brave and strong-willed, apathetic in the face of horror. She tried to be Cheryl for long enough…And she realized that Cheryl was just a scared little girl who missed her daddy, unprepared and unwilling to do what she had to in order to get through this kind of life. Heather could handle anything. Her transformation was not a choice, but something she was compelled to do by powers greater than herself. She felt like an automaton through the whole process, like watching through her eyes but losing control of her body.

She still had her fake ID, the one Harry gave her when she was 16. Things needed to change or this madness was going to be the end of her. She was the product of three souls battling within one body, and she knew that somewhere deep inside her, she possessed a mighty power. How to harness it exactly, she had yet to discover.

Heather was back from the dead. But who had resurrected her?

She had a feeling she knew the answer.

She tossed a towel over the mirror before she left the bathroom. Heather hated mirrors. She heard the rustling of plastic to her left and turned towards the kitchen. The freezer door was wide open, and there was the Metatron, crouching over a frozen piece of chicken on the floor. He'd removed it from the tray, which was lying nearby. It was a two-pack of drumsticks that Heather planned on cooking tomorrow, but it looked like that was out the window. She watched with dismay as Valtiel picked up the chicken leg and pounded it against the floor. His tongue was writhing, sensing something. It looked like he was trying to smash the meat, but was confused as to why it was still solid.

"You're not very bright for an agent of God..." Heather sighed as she pushed the freezer door closed. She considered taking the chicken from him, but found it more amusing to watch his plight unfold. As far as she gathered, he was completely blind, or at least didn't "see" the way any human did. She suspected he was at least partially deaf. Dumb too, maybe, or more likely just unsuited for this mundane world where all properties were grounded in hard logic. His tongue was highly sensitive to taste and smell; his hands equally as sensitive to subtle vibrations.

"Smells like meat…" Heather gently mocked him as he dragged his tongue over it, "Tastes like meat…But something's wrong, hm?"

The angel began to claw at it, head thrashing about violently in frustration. Heather snorted, covering a smile behind her hand,

"Oh my god…"

She would have recorded a video, if his presence didn't disrupt electronics the way it did. She had to admit, he was pretty endearing sometimes.

"I shouldn't have fed you that beef," she said, "Now you're gonna want meat all the time. I can't afford to put food in both our mouths, you know."

Valtiel beat the frozen chicken against the floor a few more times before admitting defeat. He left it there in the middle of the kitchen and crawled up the wall. Heather smirked, imagining he was pouting. She slipped the meat back in the tray, then placed it in the refrigerator,

"It's frozen. I'll cook it for you when it's thawed. Just…Don't touch my food anymore." She told him. He uttered no response as usual, still and silent on the wall.

The drumstick came in a two pack, so where was the second? Heather searched the apartment, peeking under the furnishings.

"Where'd you stash the other one?" she asked, kneeling by the cabinets, then moving to the futon area, "Ugh, why did I think feeding you was a good idea? I better not find rotting meat stashed anywhere…"

She kneeled and spotted a little round shadow under the futon. It was just out of reach.

"There it is…" she mumbled, then grabbed the furniture by its wooden arm and pulled it away from the wall. The Halo-portal behind it startled her at first; she'd forgotten all about it. Out of sight, out of mind. As she bent down to pick up the meat, she noticed something strange.

Heather leaned forward towards the tunnel and squinted into its darkness. There was a shadowy lump in there a few feet down, about the size of a…

"Va…Valtiel…?" Her eyes rounded and she slowly rose to her feet, staring at the figure within, "What is this…?"

There was an accusatory tone in her voice, but her face was all fear. She turned to the Metatron, who dropped to the floor and stalked to the scene. Crawling into the tunnel, he squeezed passed the lump, then Heather watched as it disappeared into the shadows. He was dragging it further down, possibly all the way into the Otherworld.

"Hey—" Heather began, then bit her tongue. She had a feeling she knew what it was…Did she really, really want to confirm it?

A shudder overtook her and she tossed the drumstick in the trash, washing her hands vigorously afterwards. She didn't know for sure. Maybe there _wasn't_ a human corpse in her wall.

She was having a hard time convincing herself.

Slipping on some latex gloves, Heather scrubbed the Halo of the Sun with bleach water until every red trace of it was gone. The tunnel rapidly mended, then she pushed the futon back against the wall for good measure. Once she sat down to rest, she saw the floral tapestry on the opposite wall quiver and bulge. Valtiel crawled out from under it and approached her.

_In one portal, out the other_, she thought.

Reaching into the large pocket on the side of his smock, Valtiel retrieved an object that made her stomach clench.

A gaudy and bloodstained silver chain.

She quickly drew her knees to her chest when her attendant placed it before her feet as a holy offering, bowing humbly with his head to the floor.

"No!" She gasped, waving her hand frantically at it, "No, no, no! Get that the _fuck_ out of here! Oh my god…!"

Clueless, the angel picked up the chain and pushed it into her lap. Heather shrieked and shot to her feet, backing away with her hands in the air. The last thing she wanted was to have her fingerprints on a damning piece of evidence.

"Valtiel!" Heather hissed through her teeth, pointing at the chain, "That can _not_ be in here! You need to hide it in a place where it will never, ever be found…" She paused, "Actually, destroy it! Destroy it and hide the pieces. Do you understand?" her eyes were pleading. Valtiel was still for a few seconds, looking like he was in thought. Then he let out a low, wet, growl as he rolled his head against his shoulder. He tucked the chain back into his smock, then disappeared behind the tapestry and into the portal. The woman prayed she—nor anyone else—would see a fragment of Eric ever again.

This was not the Otherworld. In this world, murder had consequences.

* * *

Heather spent all night obsessively checking the internet for news about the incident at the club. She finally found a forum for her city's newspaper, and a single thread addressing it. The post read,

"any1 know what happened at the supernova last nite? ppl were freaking out and sum1 said a girl got shot… .."

Heather anxiously chewed her lip, scrolling down to the replies. The first reply read,

"yea there was like 3 squad cars and a ambulance"

Second reply,

"I was there. The girl is my friend Tasha. Some girl was tweeking on drugs and people were tryin to help her but she flipped out and fired a tazer. Tashas fine but she said it hurt like hell lol."

Heather's whole body tensed. In the heat of the moment, when the Otherworld seeped in and made everything so monstrous, she would have never interpreted the "attacking" as "helping". She felt like a fool.

The replies after that were few, and not the least bit useful. Nothing about a possible suspect, and nothing about "Tasha" pressing charges. While she was at it, she checked for missing persons named Eric that met his description. Nothing turned up…Yet. Heather let out a long, slow, breath and closed her laptop. It was five 'o clock in the morning and she hadn't slept, nor had she seen Valtiel since he took off with Eric's chain. Hopefully he was thinking long and hard about where he hid the damn thing.

Heather passed out on the futon. She slept for just a couple hours, until something bumped forcefully against the back of it. She snapped awake, looking this way and that. She gasped as the futon was bumped again, then pushed, sliding about a foot away from the wall. Heather scrambled off of it and darted to the back of the room, heart hammering in her chest. Whatever was going on, she was not awake enough for it.

The furniture settled. Not long after, Valtiel stood up behind it and "looked" at her, head trembling in his typical fashion. Heather had been holding her breath. She wearily let it out, then approached her angel and tugged his pocket open. It was empty.

"I hope you hid that thing somewhere good." She mumbled. Dragging a palm over her face, she looked through her fingers at the fresh portal gracing her wall, as if she didn't just spent an hour cleaning it up yesterday. Thankfully, there was no corpse in it this time. Heather shoved the futon against it once more and flopped down in her blankets. She was too tired for this crap.


	4. 4 Into the Darkness

**4 – Into the Darkness**

The smell of seasoned chicken wafted through the studio. Valtiel eagerly awaited his drumstick, perched on the countertop as it cooked in the oven. His tongue snaked out of his skull, wriggling about as he "tasted" the scent. Heather sat with a bowl of cereal at the table, but it was getting soggy as she skimmed her third newspaper. She went to the convenience store down the street early this morning and picked up every local paper available. She even got the national paper just in case, skimming through each one for any information about Eric's disappearance.

So far, nothing.

Heather jumped when the oven timer went off, nearly knocking her cereal bowl off the table. The blaring sound seemed to upset the Metatron as well. He frantically pawed at the burners, throwing his head about and growling until Heather pushed him back,

"Don't touch, it's hot!" she scolded. Slipping an oven mitt over her hand, she carefully pulled the tray out and set it on the burners. There was the single chicken leg, browned and speckled with seasoning. He'd probably be just as satisfied if it was bloody and unflavored, but she took pride in her artistry.

Heather even went the extra mile and put it on a plate with a fork and a napkin for shits and giggles, setting it before Valtiel on the counter.

"Alright, chow down." She said. She didn't expect him to, but he actually utilized the fork. He wrapped his mangled, fused fingers around the silver handle and held it in a clumsy fist before stabbing it into the drumstick like he delivered a killing blow. His awful little tongue coiled over the surface of the meat as he held it near his head. Heather never really watched him this closely before. She'd always tried _not_ to look at him in the past, but the more she accepted him for what he was, the less disturbed she found herself.

He was grotesque.

…And she told herself that was okay.

It was only now that she noticed his tongue was covered in tiny barbs. They made her wince just looking at them. No wonder he could pick things up with it so easily; it reminded her of the needled surface of burr seeds that stuck to everything in the spring. Right now he was using it to shred meat off the bone. It sloughed off effortlessly and vanished into his snapping jaws.

"You really are disgusting." Heather mentioned. There was no bite behind the comment.

The leg bone was scraped clean and left on the plate. Heather rinsed her cereal bowl in the sink, and when she looked back at the counter, he was gone. No surprises there. She peeked through the blinds at the busy streets below, wondering when the police were going to kick down her door. Cheryl was content to stay inside, but Heather was too restless and free-spirited to be cooped up in one room for…However long it took for all this to blow over. She was regretting the loss of her TV more and more by the hour.

Sitting on the futon, she was uncomfortably aware of the portal to the Otherworld just behind her. The only thing separating her from it was a mattress. Nothing had ever passed through these portals except Valtiel, but the fear that one day something would kept her on her toes.

* * *

Today marked the third day since Eric went missing. Only now had a missing persons report make it to the local paper. Heather's blood ran cold as she read the description over and over:

"Eric Martin

Age 22

Male, Caucasian, short brown hair

5'7", 140 lbs

Missing since Friday, last seen at the Supernova nightclub wearing a red button-down shirt and black pants…"

Above the description was a small black and white photo of the man's familiar face.

Heather slowly lowered the paper and stared off into space for some time. Her gaze wandered to the futon, sitting innocuously against the wall. Hidden behind was the unseen portal where she was sure Valtiel had stashed Eric's corpse.

The paranoia was killing her.

Cheryl had feared the portals, but Heather was bold enough to push the futon aside and expose the claustrophobic tunnel behind. The Halo of the Sun was a symbol she associated with rebirth. She died many times in Silent Hill, but she was never dead for long. The Metatron had resurrected her, and always near one of these symbols. They were painted in red blood, which had to come from someone other than Valtiel. When she shot him with her pistol years ago, the blood that sprayed from him was as black as tar. Maybe this one had been painted with Eric's blood. Heather shuddered at the thought. She had to find out where this corpse went.

She retrieved her flashlight, concealed her knife in her boot, and tucked her pistol in her back pocket. After a moment of hesitation, Heather took a deep breath and crawled into the tunnel. It was lined in jagged black stone, just large enough to crawl through. The flashlight didn't help much. The darkness seemed unnatural, heavy, impenetrable. She glanced back at the light behind her. Beyond the entrance her apartment was still there. She pressed on down the tunnel, promising herself she'd turn back when she could no longer see the light.

After some distance, her palm met a different texture. She pointed the flashlight downward and squinted. The stone was blending into rusted metal. The tunnel from here on was red and all too familiar. Cheryl would have flipped out and turned back, Heather thought as she bravely moved forward.

Why had Valtiel brought Heather back in the first place?

The thought made her freeze for a moment. She wasn't pregnant with a demon, was she?

No…This had to be about a different matter. A matter that only Heather was strong enough to survive. She thought back to the day before her transformation. What had she done differently?

The offering. Heather remembered the blood pooling around the raw beef, the way Valtiel hungrily sucked down every last drop. Her eyes rounded when she realized…She had made a blood-offering to a deity of death and rebirth. And somehow, Valtiel knew exactly what she needed in return. Cheryl was getting too weak. She was about to commit suicide. The Metatron could not resurrect her in the confines of the real world, so he instead transformed her. Heather was already inside Cheryl. He only needed to coax her out.

Cheryl was grounded in reality. Accepting the supernatural and Otherworldly was a battle she was losing. Heather was better suited for this kind of thing—whatever trial Silent Hill was putting her though. Same body, same memories, completely different soul.

She broke her promise and wormed through the claustrophobic tunnel long after the light disappeared. She'd turned corners and climbed inclines of various depths. It was very possible her little theory about Valtiel's intentions were all wrong, and this was a terrible idea. But Heather had always trusted her gut.

How much time had passed since she entered the tunnel was unclear. It could have been 5 minutes or 5 hours. Heather's perception of time felt skewed when she finally reached the end. Somehow, she wasn't surprised at what she stepped into. It was her studio, or at least a mirrored and dilapidated version of it. It was completely dark. The walls were peeling, the rugs thread-bare. The carpet squished a bit under her feet and she shone the flashlight down. It was soaked in blood, the stain at its largest near the portal, with bloody footprints leading to the bathroom and then out the front door, which had been left wide open. Heather followed the prints to the bathroom first, cautiously drawing her pistol. The mirror was uncovered, the towel bloodstained and cast to the floor. Heather then followed the footprints back through the studio and out into the apartment complex hallway.

It was just as abandoned as her place, and in the same disrepair. The footprints got more and more faint as she trailed them out into the parking lot, where they completely disappeared. The sky was dim and red, no sun to be found. Black clouds drifted ominously overhead. It was still light enough to see, so Heather clicked off her flashlight and tucked it into her jacket pocket. What the hell was she doing in the Otherworld again? Cheryl spent the last four years enduring therapy, hospitals, medication, and misery just to keep this place away, and now Heather had dragged their shared body right back in for reasons she didn't quite understand.

She knew she wanted to find Eric and had a gut feeling she'd find him here—dead or alive. This was unquestionably a mirror of her world…Just through a broken fun-house mirror. So she decided to retrace her steps from the day of Eric's disappearance, heading towards Downtown. Cars sat abandoned and run-down on the streets. A heavy fog obscured her vision and the air around her was deathly silent. Not even the white noise of wind could be heard, only the quiet shuffling of her boots.

When she reached The Supernova, it was not exactly the jumping party spot its real-world counterpart had been. She turned all around in the middle of the street, examining the rows of old buildings. They were dark, crooked, the edges exaggerated and jagged. The red in the sky was so saturated, it was hard to look at; the clouds so black that they appeared like voids tearing through the world. The air felt somehow oppressive.

This was not the Otherworld that Heather knew. Fundamentally it was the same, but nothing about it felt personal to her. Its energy felt completely alien compared to the Otherworld she'd ventured through years ago. Then again, it had been a while…Maybe she just didn't remember it as well as she thought. Heather slowly pushed one of the double-doors open, peeking through as she swept over the interior with her flashlight. No monsters to be seen—or anyone for that matter—so she stepped inside.

The place looked like it had been abandoned a hundred years ago. The dance floor was barren and covered in soot, some of the colored spotlights lying broken where they had crashed down from the ceiling. Heather examined the bar where she retreated from Eric the first time. Curiously, there was just one drink sitting on the counter. The empty glasses were all cracked or fogged with grime, but this one looked like it has just been poured. Even the lemon wedge on the edge of the glass looked fresh. Heather lowered her nose to the pink liquid inside. Definitely smelled like alcohol, but there was another stench there too. Something foul, like a dead animal.

Heather wrinkled her nose and turned to the ladies' bathroom. That was the second place she went to hide from him. She pushed through the swinging door and stumbled upon a horrific mess. It looked like there had been a savage murder in the stall closest to the door—the one she had locked herself in before. Heather swallowed hard, her muscles tensing. The stall door was closed. An explosion of blood and miscellaneous gore had exploded from it, spilling through the gap in the bottom and splattering the mirrors, sinks, and the wall behind it. No bloody footprints though, so whatever was in there was most definitely dead. She could probably peek through the gaps in the sides and…

Forget it. She wasn't _that_ curious.

Heather quickly left the bathroom and headed for the double-doors again. She stumbled as she passed the bar, backtracking a few steps. The drink was gone. She stared for a moment, scanning her eyes around the interior once more before cautiously making an exit.

Heather stopped before the alleyway she'd been pulled into just days ago. A sick feeling twisted in her gut. It was much darker here, inky blackness like a solid entity that defied the light around it. Her flashlight only illuminated about a foot ahead. She recalled Eric's foul breath in her face, the flash of his bleach-white teeth, the drunken fury in his eyes and her skin prickled at the thought of what could have been. The thought plagued her at night as she tried to sleep. She'd choose death over rape. Carrying an evil cult God in her body had been enough of a violation. The thought of reliving anything like that again…

Hugging her arms over her torso, Heather stepped back from the alley. She'd lost her nerve. Monsters were one thing, but humans were something far more sinister that she couldn't deal with. On second thought, maybe it was best if she forgot all about Eric. Let this all blow over and play dumb. She turned away from the alley and jumped in surprise, startled by the Metatron who was suddenly standing before her.

Letting out a long sigh, Heather pressed her hand to her heart and closed her eyes,

"You have _got_ to stop sneaking up on me."

The monster's head and fingers twitched slightly. He moved forward, passed Heather, and stood just outside the alley's darkness. He was a bit unsteady on his feet, obviously more suited for crawling than walking. His hands were stretched outward, sweeping slowly as if feeling things unseen. Feeling his way through vibrations to navigate, she assumed.

"Is…Is Eric in there?" The young woman asked warily.

Valtiel's tongue crept out and stretched towards the darkness, sensing for a moment before it retracted. The angel then jumped on the wall and stuck there—like a squirrel, Heather mused. Crawling into the alley, the blackness enveloped him completely.

"Valtiel!" Heather stepped forward, stopping just short of the dark.

Wherever Valtiel was, lesser monsters were not. Heather figured as long as she trailed him, she'd be safe. At least that was how it worked last time she was in the Otherworld…This version had its differences, but it was all his native domain, right? Though it was nearly useless in this supernatural darkness, Heather kept her flashlight on and walked right into it.

"Valtiel?" she called again, shining her light all around, "Please stay close to me…"

She couldn't believe those words just came out of her mouth. A week ago, she was screaming at him to go away and never come back.

The Metatron's scraping and scuffling could be heard somewhere ahead. The echoing made it hard to decipher exactly how far. Heather ventured further and further after him, knowing for a fact that the alley was not this deep in the real world. Valtiel's scuffling was getting fainter. Heather picked up her pace and called,

"Valtiel, wait!"

The air felt unusually cold. Cold, dead, stale, air; like winter in an old attic. It only got colder as she moved forward, and it was occurring to Heather that this alley just may be endless.

"_Typical.._." She thought.

A scream echoed down the alley, distinctly human and masculine. Heather froze in fear, listening as the voice hollered,

"No! No! Get the fuck away from me!" Its tone was a blend of terror and anger, and it was getting closer. Rapidly. Heather could hear loud, sloppy footfalls advancing towards her along with,

"No, no, no! Let go of me!"

Guttural, inhuman screeching joined the cacophony. Valtiel. Was he attacking someone?

Heather's instinct overrode her curiosity. She turned on her heel and bolted, crying out when she hit a brick wall. Her flashlight clattered to the ground and blinked off. Scrambling to pick it up, she smacked it against her palm. Nothing. It was broken.

"Shit!" she squealed, whirling this way and that, squinting and trying desperately to make sense of the void around her as somewhere nearby, a man was wailing in horror.

She extended her arms and waved them around until she met a wall. The alley hadn't been exactly straight, it was crooked enough to disorient her. She felt along the wall as quickly as possible, stumbling her way in what she hoped was the right direction. Blind and navigating a world she didn't belong in…This must be how Valtiel felt in her word, she thought. She was sure she was on her way out as the air got warmer. The man's constant shuffling and hollering behind her was making her heart race.

Finally, she stepped out of the shadows and found herself under red skies. Heather turned back to the alley, pistol drawn and waiting as rapid footsteps and labored breathing got closer. A terribly familiar man appeared, racing out of the darkness. He screamed and stumbled at the sight of Heather and fell on his hip. It was definitely Eric, his clothing covered in bloodstains and missing his silver chain. Despite the blood he didn't appear to be injured. They locked eyes, mouths agape yet silent for about five seconds before someone else shot out of the alley and pounced on top of the man.

"No! God, no! Please, help me!" Eric wailed helplessly as Valtiel pinned him to the sidewalk. The Metatron's head rolled about his shoulders violently, low gurgles and sharp growls bursting from his misplaced throat. For a while, all Heather could do was stare. Her pistol was floating somewhere between raised and lowered. Eric was flipping out, but really, he wasn't being hurt. Valtiel was simply holding him in place before Heather, as if waiting for something. Probably an action on her part, she figured, and finally spoke,

"Let him go."

She was a bit surprised when the Metatron obeyed her, scuttling off of Eric and crouching a few feet away. The disheveled man sat up, panting and eyes darting wildly between her and the monster. He got to his feet and wobbled, running his fingers through his hair in exasperation.

"I-It's…You." He mentioned, looking at Heather with guilt in his eyes, "Uh…Helen?"

"It's _Heather_," she corrected flatly. She gestured the barrel of the pistol at him briefly, "and I should shoot you, _Eric Martin_."

The man's hands shot forward, "No! Don't shoot! Please, just…Just chill, okay? I-I don't know w-where I am or what's even going on, I…I…" his head snapped towards Valtiel, hunched silently near the alley, "W-what is that fucking thing? Do you know?"

Heather just sighed and switched the safety on her gun before tucking it away. She replied,

"He's an angel. Kind of. I'm not one hundred percent—but I'm pretty sure you're dead."

The man's eyes rounded, mouth parting slightly in disbelief. He then looked all around at his hellish surroundings, drinking in just how unnatural it all was.

"This…No. No! Is this Hell? This is Hell, isn't it?" His voice was frantic, eyes pleading. Heather shrugged, smirking a bit at his misery,

"Something like that."

"Just tell me what the fuck is going on! Please!" his eyes were misting over, voice hitching.

"I wish I knew, Eric," Heather replied honestly, "Tell me…What's the last thing you remember before you found yourself here?"

"Okay…Okay…" Eric took a deep breath, trying to recall, "I was…I'm pretty sure I was at the club. And…Yeah. Yeah, I was talking to you! And then…" A look of horror crossed his face as he locked eyes with Heather. She looked knowingly back at him.

"And then you tried to pull me into an alley and fuck me." Heather finished for him, then shot a glance at the Metatron, "Good thing Valtiel was there, huh?"

Eric looked back at the monster,

"Valtiel?" then back at Heather, "It…It grabbed me! I remember! That fucking thing ki—" he paused, continuing weakly, "It killed me, didn't it? I…I'm dead. I'm really dead. And this is…This is Hell!" He brought his hands to the sides of his head and paced forward, muttering, "Oh fuck…Oh fuck me…No…!"

The woman watched him, silently indulging in the whole display. A minuscule part of her pitied him.

"Don't worry. This place is _full_ of monsters. You'll fit right in." she almost grinned.

Eric's head snapped towards her, staring her down with a horrified expression. Then he exclaimed,

"What are you doing here then, huh?"

She shrugged,

"I just came here to find your body. I guess I found it."

A glimmer of hope flashed in the young man's eyes as he asked,

"Is there a way out? Can I…You know…Is there any way to be alive again?"

Heather fell silent. She thought about that in earnest for a moment.

"Maybe," she replied, a hint of uncertainty in her voice. She turned and headed back uptown to her Otherworld-studio, "Follow me. I want to try something."

Eric trailed her without question, throwing a look behind him. Valtiel had disappeared.

* * *

"This is just like Downtown," he mentioned, then pointed to the club, "That's the Supernova! Except it's all…Fucked up. I woke up in some apartment and it was like…I thought I blacked out drunk during the apocalypse or city evacuation or something. I came down here and it…It was like this. The whole city."

"It's like a mirror-world," explained Heather, "I don't know much about it myself."

There was a silence between them. Then Eric stammered,

"This demon thing chased me into that alley. A _big_ motherfucker with a helmet. I-I think he's gone now…" He paused, then asked, "Are you a demon too or something?"

Heather didn't answer right away. In some technical aspects, she supposed she could be considered a demon with Alessa's vile soul knocking around deep inside her. But it was Heather's soul that possessed the body right now.

"No," she finally answered, "But I aborted a demon-God fetus one time and my dad dabbled in cult stuff. I kind of have ties with all this supernatural stuff."

"_What?_" Eric blinked.

"You know, I really don't owe you an explanation," she decided, "Especially after what you did to me."

"I'm sorry!" He whined, "I didn't mean to hurt you!"

"Now you're gonna lie right to my face?" Heather looked back at him, wearing a look of utter contempt.

The man almost spoke, then held his tongue and stayed silent all the way to the studio.

* * *

. .

. .

_[Author: Thank you for the nice reviews, it is very much appreciated. :) I'm surprised anyone is reading this at all. And yes, this story will contain some characters from previous Silent Hill titles, but none from SH4 and after just because I'm not very familiar with them.]_


	5. 5 Camera Shy

**5 – Camera Shy**

"This is the place! This is where I woke up!" Eric exclaimed as he and Heather stepped into her studio. He turned all around, then pointed at the big bloodstain on the floor near the portal, "I went into the bathroom, and when I came back out there was this…_Thing_ here. It looked like a girl—kinda like you—but it was crawling on the wall like a spider and it was shaking its head like crazy." He shook his own head to demonstrate, "I freaked out and ran Downtown. I thought someone slipped me some bad drugs or something, like I was having a bad trip."

"Oh, no. It's all very real." Heather assured him, "Trust me…"

Approaching the Halo of the Sun portal she'd crawled through, Heather turned to Eric and asked him,

"Hey. What does this look like to you?"

The young man raised an eyebrow,

"What? That? Some kind of graffiti or symbol or something. Why?"

She frowned,

"You don't see the tunnel?"

"Tunnel…?"

Heather sighed, placing her hands on her hips and staring at the floor in thought. Eric looked worried and asked,

"What are you talking about? Should there be a tunnel?"

"I kind of had a feeling this would happen," she said solemnly, "Basically, yeah, there's a tunnel right here that leads into my apartment. My _real _apartment. But you can't see it, I think because you aren't meant to pass through it."

"What?" Eric rushed forward and touched the wall, his palms pressing solidly against it. Through Heather's eyes, his hands pressed over what should have been thin air. A ghostly apparition of the wall appeared under his hands.

"S-So I can't go back? There's nothing I can do at all?" he looked at her with desperate, fearful eyes. Heather shrugged and leaned against the flipped-over futon,

"I don't know for sure. If there are other ways to get back, I don't know about them. Valtiel makes these portals, and I'm pretty sure he resurrected you too. Or at least half-resurrected you." She furrowed her brow in thought as she tried to recall some notes she took in her journal, "He's resurrected me before, and I couldn't leave until—" the memory of Valtiel turning red valves crossed her mind, "Well, until he _allowed_ me to leave. I don't think people end up in this shit-hole for no reason. You're usually here because your soul is dirty and you need to repent for something."

Eric looked at her like she'd just spoken French.

"What are you talking about?" he nearly wheezed, "You're saying I gotta kiss an angel's ass to get out of here or…?"

"In my case, I had to birth a God." Heather answered casually, "But I…I kinda took a different route. Either way, the Otherworld didn't need me anymore by the end of it, so Valtiel let me pass back into the real world. I don't know what this place wants out of you. That's _your_ problem."

Eric blanched, standing frozen by the wall.

"Heather, please. _Please_, you have to help me." His tone was pleading. The woman crossed her arms,

"No, Eric, I really don't. You should have thought about that before you attacked me." She glanced up, spotting The Metatron crouched in the corner of the ceiling, "You're here because you deserve to be, and the Otherworld will decide when you've served your sentence."

She kneeled before the Halo of the Sun and mentioned,

"You'll want to find a weapon as soon as possible." With that, he watched in disbelief as she phased through the "solid" wall in the center of the Halo.

* * *

Two days later, and Eric was still listed as a missing person in the paper. Heather continued to obsessively check the forum about the Supernova incident, and new posts were surfacing. She created an account just to keep the thread alive and press people for info. One of the posters was an employee at the club and said that the police were looking for the person who fired the stun gun. It was now being considered an assault charge. Heather was fascinated and very relieved to read that when they went to obtain the security footage, that particular part was scrambled beyond recognition. So far, all they had was a description to work with, and it wasn't even an accurate one. One of the posters described her as "an Asian chick with medium-length hair and a brown coat".

She wasn't Asian, her hair was short and blonde now, and her coat was green. Leave it up to a bunch of drunk college kids to remember anything properly.

Heather knew Valtiel's presence had something to do with the botched security footage. He caused radios to lose their signal, watches to stop, televisions to play static—all just by being near them. She tried taking photos of him numerous times to prove to her therapists he was real, and the pictures turned out black and grainy. As far as she knew, there was no way to record him. Even audio recordings would just play back static.

Valtiel hadn't been around as much since Eric was banished to the Otherworld. He went through quiet periods in the past where Heather wouldn't see him for days or weeks at a time, but she never knew where he went until now. Supposedly he had been in the Otherworld, tormenting the miserable souls lost there. In this case, Eric Martin. She hoped to find the man's corpse and get some closure, some knowledge that it was deep in another realm where police would never find it. But now she was paranoid. She didn't know what was going on. Had Valtiel killed him or just banished him? Could he eventually earn his way out? If so, she could be locked up for life depending on what he decided to tell authorities.

The months got colder and the sun was hanging low in the sky despite how early it was. Heather threw on an oversized gray hoodie and partially obscured her face with a Happy Burger ballcap. Her time working at Happy Burger was brief. She was promptly fired after she had a "hallucination" and attacked a customer in the bathroom—A customer that to her, at the time, looked like a monster. That was the incident that landed her in the mental hospital for a hundred miserable days, locked in a small room with no one to keep her company except Valtiel (Insulting, considering he was the reason she ended up there in the first place). Heather kept the cap as a reminder that her perception of reality was not everyone else's. Not in this world.

The roads were backed up with evening traffic. Heather walked to the convenience store just down the street from her apartment. She'd scrounged up enough change for nachos and a soda; not the ideal dinner, but the one she could afford after rent was due. The gas station parking lot was full, cars lined up at the pumps and honking occasionally. Heather crossed the lot and crunched on her nachos, oblivious to the dog barking at her from someone's open window. She never saw it as it wriggled out and went bounding after her. Heather let out a yelp as it darted under her feet, and down she went. The soda cup exploded on the pavement, chips scattering around her as the dog jumped back and forth in a frenzy.

Heather winced at the pain in her knees. Her hoodie was wet and sticky with soda. She looked down at her ruined dinner, then glared at the barking dog. It was tan and white with a curled tail, pointed ears, and puffy fur. Its collar was red, decorated with sparkly studs. It stopped barking briefly to eat some of the chips off the ground.

"Mira! No! Bad dog!" a frantic voice called. Heather turned to the girl rushing towards the scene, who quickly snatched the dog up in her arms. She was somewhere in her teens, her long flaxen hair pulled into a messy ponytail.

"Oh my god, I am so sorry!" the girl apologized to Heather, "Are you okay?"

With a small sigh, Heather got to her feet and shook the soda off her hands,

"I'm fine. It happens." She grumbled.

"I feel so bad," the girl frowned, "Hold on just a second, I'll be right back!"

Heather watched her carry the dog back to a white car and place it in the back seat before cranking up the window. She then ran into the convenience store exclaiming,

"Dad! Dad!"

Heather waited for a moment, until the girl and an older man with graying blond hair stepped out of the store. He was carrying what was obviously a 40oz bottle of alcohol in a black plastic bag. His eyes were weary, forest green in color. A bit of stubble was visible on his face as the girl led him to Heather. The girl was carrying a new tray of nachos and a soda, which she handed to the older woman with a grin. She had multicolored braces on her teeth.

"Here!" she beamed. Heather graciously took the food, looking a bit bewildered. She responded quietly,

"Oh…Thank you. This is really nice."

The man finally spoke, shuffling his foot slightly in embarrassment,

"Sorry about that stupid dog…" he turned to the teen, "_This_ is why I wanted to leave her at home, Laura. See what she did to this poor woman? She has soda all over her clothes. What do you say?"

The girl sighed,

"I already said I was sorry!"

Heather nodded,

"She did. It's fine, really. This ratty old sweatshirt will survive." She forced a little smile, assuring the girl it would be okay. Suddenly a horn blared, followed by someone's angry shouting. The man and his daughter turned to the car parked behind their white vehicle, waiting for their turn at the pump.

"We're holding up the line," the man grunted. With a bag in one hand, he clumsily dug through his pockets until he found a five dollar bill and handed it to Heather, "Sorry for the trouble. Buy yourself something else too if you'd like. Nice meeting you, uh…"

"Heather," the woman introduced, then wiggled the bill and grinned, "Thanks. You're a nice dude."

She thought she saw a hint of a smile as he shot her a nod and began walking away. Laura waved enthusiastically back at Heather as they got into their car and drove off. Heather hated dogs—feared them, actually—but she couldn't complain with this extra cash she so desperately needed. Maybe he thought she was a homeless person, with the old baggy clothes she was wearing…As she began to leave, something crunched under her foot. She lifted her boot, and beneath was a business card. It was crumpled but otherwise clean. It must have fallen out of the man's pocket.

Little trinkets like this always grabbed Heather's attention. It was from a therapy center of all things, listing a therapist named Judith Stewart who specialized in patients with depression, post-traumatic stress disorder, and chemical dependency. Heather arguably suffered from all three of those things. The name of the patient was scrawled in blue ink: "James Sunderland", and his appointment was written in at 10:00 A.M. . .She stood there holding the card for a long moment. Events like this were too strange and coincidental to ignore. This was significant. Some unseen power was pushing her into something, and Heather decided she wasn't going to fight it. Things got better with her anxiety when she stopped fighting it, her relationship with her monster-roommate improved when she stopped fighting it…Why fight this?

A number was listed on the card. She was going to call tomorrow.


End file.
